


The shell that encloses

by Justgot1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Non-Graphic Self-Harm, Self-Harm, but he does ritualize it a bit, more dysfunctional coping method than anything else really, tw: self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justgot1/pseuds/Justgot1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This would be misunderstood. Anything that comes from the underside, the dark side, the <i>antipodal</i> point is misunderstood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The shell that encloses

**Author's Note:**

> I found this in my bits-n-bobs folder from months ago. Yeah I dunno either. I must have been having a bad day. But what the hell, here you go.

He wants to be in a small, dark place. He wants what is clawing in the wet cage of his chest to stop,  _stop_.

Everything is elliptical. He paces the flat with decreasing eccentricity, spiraling in to where his mind eats itself and shits itself and eats itself again. He wraps his arms around his ribcage like bindings, trying to keep the warm in.

The world, the  _world_  gets harder every day, harder to ignore, harder to bear, and yet and  _yet_  he's banned from every soothing little destruction. It’s impossible to sustain a bad habit in London.

The belt is not a fine one. It's wide and flat, black, pebbled, leather a little raw. It was a belt to hold up dirty jeans over too-prominent hipbones, ragged things unfashionably and unintentionally ripped at the knee, white strings trailing. The seams at the ankles tore off at the back in loops and always caught at his heels.

He still has them, somewhere. He still has everything, somewhere.

He flicks the lock on his bedroom door, strips his jacket. Keeps the shirt.

This would be misunderstood. Anything that comes from the underside, the dark side, the  _antipodal_  point is misunderstood.

It’s impossible to sustain a questionable coping mechanism in London.

Standing is acceptable, but kneeling is better. He palms the buckle and wraps the belt around his left fist once, twice. Holds the end loosely in his right hand.

He flicks the end deftly across the plane of his clothed back, and the flat  _thwak_  of it is a bloom of relief. With the first strike his breath releases in a long, shuddering sigh. His shoulders drop and his eyes slide shut.

The sting is minor, it’s less than a slap. Because it’s not about pain, it’s not about punishment and it’s not exactly a pleasure. Sherlock does not, in fact,  _like_  pain.

He flicks it again but catches an edge where it wraps around his side and he flinches and hisses. Off-center, unsatisfying. Annoyed, he tries again –  _slap_ , that flat sound, the sudden sharpness on his back,  _yes_. Clean. Quick to dissipate.

The pressure in his mind eases, drains down his spine and into his body where it can dissolve.

It’s enough. He puts the belt down and slumps, eyes closed. It’s a bubble of peace that won’t last, but it’s enough for right now. It’s enough.


End file.
